Tender is the Night
by liberteas
Summary: It's just another one of the dull, boring dances Austria's forced to attend. Except this time, Prussia's the one dancing with him.


A/N: I apologise for unbeta-ed writing and not updating my other fic first. I swear I'm 80% done with the current chapter, I just write really really slowly. But come on, it's fanfiction, I'm doing this for fun and to satisfy my own fangirl urges. But do fav or review if you liked this, haha. It's a great motivator for me!

* * *

"You're trying so hard to enjoy yourself, I had to put you out of your misery," said Gilbert as he swooped in out of nowhere, taking Roderich's untouched glass of champagne from his stiff fingers and setting it down on some nearby table in one fluid motion.

Roderich watched him uncomprehendingly, not knowing where to put his hands once the glass was gone. He settled for checking his pocketwatch for the time and almost groaned in frustration when he realised it was still just half past eight.

"And how, pray tell, are you going to make me enjoy this absolutely uninteresting social gathering when your very presence irks me to no end?" asked Roderich acridly, staring disdainfully at the sea of dancing men and women, all dressed in their finest, swathed in expensive colourful fabrics with hair coiffed in the latest fashion, and the air was filled with the mingled scents of a hundred exotic perfumes. They were all as perfectly polished as any of the gems or pearls gleaming at their throats. He could spot Elizabeta in the very heart of the crowd, hear the silvery peals of her laughter even from this distance, watch her dancing to her heart's content.

She was fire; a golden flame of energy and enthusiasm that never went out. She, unlike him, was one with the exuberant spirit of the party, the short-lived passions and excesses of humans. The mortals lived fast and lived luxuriously, seizing the moment, because they could be living this moment and gone the next. So they surrounded themselves with beautiful things, with beautiful people, so that when they left the word of the living they could at least sigh wistfully at the ghosts of what they had.

He tugged at his own cravat and straightened his glasses a little self-consciously, aware that his dress suit, though expensive and perfectly serviceable, was quite a few years out of date. He prided himself on the fact that he did not live like the humans. He lived slowly and simply - he had all the time in the world, after all - taking time to savour life's every little joy instead of gulping it down. He was a nation. He was constant, he was unchangeable, filled to the brim with the suffering and the joy of so many generations.

He spared a quick sideways glance at Gilbert, smart as always in his military uniform, and he had to admit to himself that Gilbert wore it better than he himself ever could. Gilbert was taller and broader than he was, and he filled out his clothes rather than looking like he was drowning in them, which was how Roderich typically appeared in his own uniform. That, and Gilbert's unique colouring had always made the ladies flock to him like bees to honey. Tonight, however, Gilbert's eyes seemed almost burgundy in the dim lighting and his hair an ashy grey. He leaned in closer into Roderich's personal space, and teased,

"Aww, Roddy, don't act like that! You know you love me!"

Gilbert was so close now that Roderich was faced with a not-entirely unwelcome close-up view of Gilbert's brilliant red eyes.

"Come on, let's dance. The music is excellent, no?"

 _No, it isn't_ , thought Roderich sourly. The violas were out of tune and the violins were too shrill, but he kept these thoughts to himself as he turned away from Gilbert towards the wall casting his eyes around for something that wasn't Gilbert, trying to act like he actually cared about the painting hanging on the wall, which depicted a writhing mass of bodies which he supposed represented some celestial orgy. He couldn't even remember when he'd bought such a ghastly thing. He was not going to dance with Gilbert, or anyone else, for that matter, no matter how prettily he asked.

"Look, I'll even dance the girl's part, come on, Roddy, don't be such a spoilsport. It's your own party, and you're not even attempting to join in! Parties are supposed to be for having fun, and you look like you haven't seen fun in twenty years."

Roderich glared at Gilbert. "Am I supposed to apologise for the fact that my definition of an enjoyable evening is one spent at the opera and not in a mass of sweaty humans with mediocre music? And allow me to remind you: this party was Elizabeta's idea. And you know as well as I do that it's improper for two men to dance together, not to mention that you'd be the last person I would want to dance with."

Having said all this in one breath, he forced his eyes back onto the horrible painting.

"Please. I know you'd rather dance with me than that hippo you were dancing with just now," countered Gilbert. Truthfully, Roderich hadn't much enjoyed her tripping all over his feet, but he was inclined to disagree with everything that came out of Gilbert's mouth. So he said,

"Don't be rude, Gil-Prussia," he stopped himself from saying Gilbert's name just in time. Gilbert had lost the right to be called by his human name a long time ago. "The Duchess is a perfectly charming lady, and you should call her as such."

"You didn't deny that you didn't like it, though," challenged Gilbert slyly, and then, as the violins swelled in a crescendo, he dragged Roderich onto the dance floor without warning, maneuvering them between twirling couples. Roderich was far too shocked to protest. The familiar mischievous spark had returned to Gilbert's eyes, Roderich noted with a tinge of apprehension.

"Gilbert, what-" the words were out of his mouth before he registered them in his brain, before he clamped his mouth tightly shut. It didn't matter. The damage was done.

Gilbert looked almost dazed. "That's the first time you've called me Gilbert for a long time," said Gilbert in an awestruck tone, with a tender, out-of-place smile on his face. Roderich couldn't reply, too entranced by the smile on Gilbert's face, the smile he'd only seen many, many years ago, the innocent, gentle smile that had twisted his juvenile heartstrings and made him fall in love with a white-haired, red-eyed boy.

Too lost in his thoughts, Roderich realised he had allowed himself to be led into the very centre of the dance floor.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, humiliation colouring his cheeks, trying to retract his hand from Gilbert's vice-like grip. "Shh," shushed Gilbert, "Just follow my lead."

"But you said _you'd_ dance the lady's part!" protested Roderich indignantly.

"The waltz's starting, Roddy, stop trying to wrestle out of my grip, do you want to look bad in front of all these guests?" Huffing in irritation, Roderich relented and placed his hand on Gilbert's sturdy shoulder, while Gilbert placed his on Roderich's waist. Their other hand were already clasped together, Gilbert's encased in sleek black lambskin moulded to his skin, and Roderich's in turtledove grey, and Roderich imagined he could feel the heat of Gilbert's hand sear through the layers of fabric between them.

Gilbert's light touch on his waist was electric, light but demanding attention. He didn't move it suggestively to untoward places, but Roderich was extremely aware of its presence. It was as if the entirety of Roderich's being was concentrated on the two points where his body met Gilbert's, and he felt light-headed from the intense feelings running through him.

They danced. It was somewhat clumsy as Roderich had never danced the lady's part of a waltz, and it was only with pure luck he managed not to destroy Gilbert's feet.

When the waltz finally ended, he broke free of Gilbert's loosening grasp to escape to the outskirts of the dance floor. His face was flushed, his heart was hammering too fast, and there as a lump in his throat that he couldn't dislodge. Before he knew it he found Elizabeta's pretty face in front of him, grinning widely.

"I saw you two dancing," she said, winking at Gilbert, who smirked in return. He was on the other side of the room, being surrounded by a sudden influx of young ladies who wanted to dance with him. Roderich suddenly felt sick as he watched them giggle, and saw Gilbert bow exaggeratedly and press his lips to the hand of a girl, then lead her onto the dance floor.

"Are you blushing?" Elizabeta questioned, studying Roderich's face intently. "Oh, dear heavens, Roderich, are you attracted to him?"

"No! Of course not!" sputtered Roderich, at a complete loss on how to respond. He'd just been caught up in the heat of the moment, nothing more, he tried to assure himself. But he had never been good at lying to himself. He knew what he'd felt, and he knew it was the curl of arousal deep in his belly, boiling him from within.

"Or so you insist, darling," said Elizabeta dryly. "You can keep denying the truth," she patted Roderich on the shoulder, handing him a glass of dubiously pink liquid.

"It's alright if you like someone else, you know. Even though, officially, Hungary is married to Austria, you and I both know that Roderich and Elizabeta aren't actually married."

He nods. He was perfectly aware. The marriages between countries had nothing to do with feelings or love, or anything remotely like that. Marriage between countries were simply things of convenience, the collaboration of nations with mutual interests.

He decided to take an experimental sip of the pink liquid, just in time for Elizabeta to say,

"Gilbert is quite attractive, is he not? And despite his callous exterior, he's such a romantic at heart." Roderich almost choked on the mouthful of sugary sweet beverage at her words, turning to stare at Elizabeta in horror. Elizabeta raised an eyebrow at him. "Surely you can't find him attractive!" he said, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"He has a really nice build and bone structure. And he's got a pretty face, don't you agree?" Elizabeta replied.

"Excuse me?" cried a horrified Roderich. "We've been at each other's throats since the 1740s! I certainly don't find him attractive at all!"

"Why not, though?" interjected Gilbert, sidling into the conversation as if he had been included from the beginning. "I'm obviously the most attractive man in this room right now."

"Please. Your massive ego is obviously compensating for something. I think Vash outshines you by a hundred bounds. Maybe a thousand, even..." Roderich trailed off rather reflectively.

Gilbert looked extremely displeased at the notion that Roderich found someone else more attractive than him, and turned to Elizabeta for help.

"Say, Lizzie, do you find me or that woman-haired blondie more attractive?"

"I'm not answering that question because your ego doesn't need any more stoking," returned Elizabeta, staring into the depths of her half-empty glass of pink liquid and then setting it aside to face Gilbert directly. "But honestly, you have really nice arms." Having said this, she latched herself around said arm and leaned into Gilbert, giving him an appraising look from under her lashes.

"I was rather offended when you danced with that waifish girl in the red dress instead of seeking the pleasure of my company first. Or have you tired of my company already after all these years we've known each other?" she murmured not so softly into Gilbert's ear.

"Never, Lizzie. Fine wines only get better with time, and you are undoubtedly the finest of all," came the answer, his voice velvety smooth, almost seductive. "Though I have almost forgotten how delightful your body feels against mine."

"Then let us dance, and know each other again," said she.

Roderich barely caught their departing words, before they'd glided out of his earshot and into the middle of the throng of people, leaving him alone, still clutching the glass of frothy pink liquid.

The song was fast, but they were both experienced dancers, having had decades upon decades of practice with one another at countless parties, and they moved as fluidly as if they were one body. Roderich couldn't help the stab of envy as he watched them break apart and rejoin and glissade around each other easily with perfect grace. He couldn't move like that. He was the klutz, the clumsy clown, the one who couldn't be trusted to do anything more physically demanding than planting a flower.

They were stunning, thought Roderich to himself. They drew the eye of every onlooker, the perfect couple, the most beautiful lady in the ballroom dancing with the most handsome man, and they were so well-matched in coordination and skill it was a thing of beauty to spectate.

When they parted at the end of the song, there was a round of polite applause and cheers from the other call-goers. They were surrounded immediately by admirers and friends alike, who all wanted to have their turn with the best dancers.

They did pause dancing briefly, to rest and for refreshments. Gilbert came to him first, breath quickened by his exertion. Elizabeta had been coerced into dancing with the same viscount for the third time, and they both wordlessly watched them circle the dance floor.

"I'm certain that guy has a crush on Elizabeta," stated Gilbert matter-of-factly. He glanced at Roderich when he didn't respond. "Oh, don't look so surprised."

" _Everyone's_ had a crush on your wife at some point in time, it's a stage of life," said Gilbert dismissively. "Elizabeta's hot like that. Easy on the eyes, really great pair of tits, legs to die for, and she's not a total bitch all the time if she puts her mind to it, you know what I mean? I bet she's a tiger in bed, too. Who wouldn't want her?"

Yes, exactly, that was the problem. Who wouldn't want Elizabeta? Certainly not Gilbert, when he'd just declared how pleasing she was to him. Roderich knew he should have said something, maybe scolded Gilbert for using such crude language to describe her. But he was too lost in his thoughts. How could Roderich ever compare to her, she with her soft curves and silky hair and the fiery personality to match Gilbert's, the very object of Gilbert's desires? Who would want skinny little Roderich, effeminate, boring, dull, and most importantly, male?

Roderich didn't spend much more time with Gilbert before he was whisked away by yet another lady, who giggled too much and touched Gilbert much more than necessary.

After another hour of watching Gilbert and Elizabeta dance with around a dozen different men and women from his position at the refreshments table, Roderich decided that there was nothing left for him to see, and he retired upstairs, where he spent the remainder of the evening with only his piano for company. He found solace in the piano. Its gentle notes soothed his aching and troubled heart. But he couldn't stop himself from replaying that awkward dance with Gilbert and how the simple intimacy of holding hands had already filled him with all sorts of conflicting emotions.

Elizabeta didn't join him in their bed that night.

He hadn't felt so lonely in a long time.


End file.
